


The One Man Left Awake

by mnemosyne23



Category: Lost
Genre: Creepy, Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-13
Updated: 2005-01-13
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:10:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne23/pseuds/mnemosyne23
Summary: Danielle warned Sayid to watch his friends closely.  This is why.





	The One Man Left Awake

**Author's Note:**

> I've got a high percentage of reviews for several of my previous stories asking me why people like to kill off Charlie. This is a psychological question that I'm sure could be answered with several rounds of intense therapy, but speaking from personal experience, it's not that I LIKE to kill Charlie, so much as I care when he dies. Much as I love all the characters on Lost, I just don't feel the same emotional attachment for any of them as I do for Charlie and Claire (and Hurley, because DUDE). When I'm writing something as emotional as a deathfic I want to be invested in the story, so that I can make it emotional for the person reading it. I kill off my favorite characters so I can give myself chills or reduce myself to tears, and then I hope some of that emotion ebbs through to the reader.
> 
> But, since this appears to be an issue that annoys some people, I decided to do a complete 180 this time around. I will tell you this and only this: Charlie is the main character of this fic, and HE DOESN'T DIE.
> 
> Proceed. ;)

_I'm not sick but I'm not well,_  
And I'm so hot 'cuz I'm in Hell…

-Harvey Danger, "Flagpole Sitta"-

 

It would have been storybook for Claire to be last, but this was not a fairytale. She'd been third. Charlie remembered it clearly. Ever since they'd recovered her from Ethan she'd barely spoken, hardly eaten, dying day by day in the harsh orange firelight. The others tried to draw her out, Charlie most of all, but she just stared into the flames, rocking a ghost baby, eyes hollow as Halloween jack-o-lanterns with dead candles.

They'd never found the baby. Whether it had lived or died after the birth was unclear, and Claire wouldn't talk about what happened in those terrifying weeks while she'd been missing. Sayid and Kate had been the ones to find her, and they carried her back to camp like a rag doll. Charlie thought she was dead as they laid her down beside the fire, and in those endless seconds he recanted all the faith he'd renewed in God. Then he saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and like an atheist on Judgment Day, threw himself back on the altar of faith and prayed _thank you, thank you, mercy hallelujah._

She'd come back empty. An empty belly, vacant eyes, featureless lips that never moved except to nibble at a shred of boar meat or whisper a helpless, "Why?" The only comfort she appeared to find was in Walt, who seemed to take a grim fascination in the catatonic young woman with the sunflower hair. The two of them would sit by the fire, Walt reading his comic books, Claire watching him. It was the only time she didn't rock. Jack said it was because she was imprinting her motherly instincts on the nearest child. Charlie thought it looked more like she was trying to memorize the little boy. As if she was afraid he'd disappear, like the child who'd grown in her womb.

Charlie did all he could -- talked to her, sat with her, held her to his chest and told her she was Claire, in case she'd forgotten, and he missed her. Charlie missed her. He'd come back from the dead, did she see? He'd come back from the dead for her. _"Please, Claire, look at me."_

_"Why?"_

He never answered the question, because when a man comes back from the dead for you, you shouldn't have to ask him why.

 

\--------------------------

 

The first one to get sick was Sun. By rights it should have been Claire; in truth it _was_ Claire. But Charlie couldn't admit it to himself, and so he named Sun the first victim. It went largely unnoticed in the tight-knit caves, as the Korean couple spent so much time isolated from the other castaways. But after a while, Charlie began to notice that Sun was slipping away into the forest for longer and longer periods each day. One day he followed her, and found her standing absolutely still in the middle of a vast clearing. Her head was tilted, as if listening. He crouched behind a boulder on the near side of the clearing, keeping his breath as slow and quiet as possible lest she hear him. Something told him that he didn't want Sun to find out he was there; it wouldn't be good for his health. After an hour, she righted her head, turned crisply on her heel and headed back toward the caves. Her path took her directly past Charlie's boulder, and he crouched as low as he could behind his concealing underbrush, fist shoved into his mouth to quiet his panicked breathing. He couldn't explain why he was suddenly terrified of the slender, pretty woman who grew healing herbs for the camp… but he was.

That night she killed Jin.

It was done without artifice, without even the cover of sleep. The camp was eating its communal meal of boar and bananas when Sun walked demurely to her husband, took a wicked blade from beneath her shirt, and calmly slit his throat. It happened so quickly, with so little warning, that for a second no one understood what she'd done. Even the warm spray of blood across Charlie's face did little more than make him blink in confusion.

When she turned and placed the blade calmly against Sayid's throat, the screaming began.

Pandemonium broke out as everyone leapt to their feet, diving for the petite Asian woman. Sayid was quicker, however, and knocked the blade from her hand even as he bolted to his feet and pinned her arms to her sides. "What are you doing!" he demanded. Risking freeing one of her arms, he pointed to Jin's body, slumped backward, face frozen in an eternal rictus of disbelief. "Why!"

She regarded him calmly, as if she weren't drenched in her husband's blood. "Kill the old," she said in perfect accented English. Then in a snakelike motion she slithered out of Sayid's grip and dived for the knife. Sayid grabbed for her. There was a scuffle. Sun screamed; a piercing howl of frustration and rage.

There was a soft crack, and the scream fell silent.

Sayid stood, and the others watched in horrified shock as Sun's body remained on the ground, limp as a marionette without its strings, head crooked at an unnatural angle. All eyes in the camp lifted to find Sayid's face. He was placid as he eyed them back. "Rousseau warned me to watch you all closely," he said, as though telling them how to bake cookies. "She warned of a sickness." His arm swept out in an arc to encompass the bodies of the dead Korean couple. "Now I understand."

Silence reigned as everyone stared shiftily at everyone else. Charlie found himself wondering if any of them had been making secret trips into the jungle and he hadn't noticed.

"Where's Walt?"

It was Michael's voice, and Charlie followed everyone's gaze to where the black man was staring down at Claire.

She was alone.

Michael's eyes were wild as he demanded again, "Where is he? Where's my boy!"

"Michael!" Charlie shouted, anger boiling in his voice. "Leave her alone!"

The other man swiveled his head around to glare at Charlie. "He was here a minute ago!" he barked. "I saw him! I gave him his dinner, and he said he was going to go eat with Claire. So where is he!" He turned his furious, stricken gaze back to Claire. "What happened to him! Did he walk away? Did someone take him? Is that it? Did someone take him, Claire? You should have done something!"

Claire raised her eyes, and even across the cave Charlie felt the weight of that gaze. "Why?" she whispered.

And Charlie thought she meant it.

 

\------------------------------

 

They searched for Walt all that week, but Charlie could have told them it wouldn't do any good. This island -- the things that called themselves people who lived and whispered on this island -- wanted children. They'd taken Claire's baby, they'd taken Walt, they'd taken Rousseau's child Alex. To what end or purpose nobody knew, but one thing was certain: if Alex had been missing for sixteen years, they would never find Walt or Claire's baby.

_Kill the old._

Sun's last words hung like a shroud over the camp. What little dialogue there was anymore was strictly about survival. There was no friendly banter, no cheerful conversations. Anyone could be an enemy. Anyone could turn in a heartbeat from a friend to a foe and slit your throat in your sleep. Despite the tropical heat, Charlie had never felt so cold.

Jack and Sayid argued constantly about the nature of Rousseau's "sickness." Jack said Sun had gone insane from the isolation and stress of life on the island. Insanity, he claimed, wasn't communicable. Sayid, on the other hand, said that if that were so, why the message: _Kill the old_. And why did Walt disappear as she said that? Too much coincidence to BE coincidence. They had to be connected. Something had made Sun do it: why not a disease?

Charlie tried to tell them about Sun's trips into the jungle; the way she'd seemed to listen to the air, as if getting instructions. But they ignored him.

He never left Claire's side anymore, if possible. Everyone else but himself and Jack had begun to shun her, as if blaming her for bringing the sickness to the camp. Claire didn't seem to notice. She hadn't said a word since her brief exchange with Michael. Charlie kept her clean, took her to bathe, brushed her hair and teeth. She let him care for her, not protesting as his hands gently scrubbed at her painfully thin limbs. He would whisper to her as he worked, telling her stories and making up anecdotes, hoping he could get her to smile again. He had a feeling it was hopeless, but Sayid had once said hope was a dangerous thing to lose, so he pressed on.

Two weeks after Jin's murder and Walt's disappearance, Charlie woke up with a knife to his throat and Claire's rail thin body hovering above him.

Every muscle in his body tensed, but he forced himself to remain still and calm. "Claire…" he whispered, feeling the sharp sting of the metal as it broke the skin of his neck.

There was something in Claire's eyes he hadn't seen since her rescue; an awareness that had been lacking. She seemed confused and afraid, and he could tell through their razor sharp connection that her hand was trembling, as if she were fighting a losing battle. "Why?" she asked, in a voice so broken and raw with uncertainty that it broke Charlie's heart like a hammer. "Why?"

"You're sick, Claire," he whispered, ignoring the pain, keeping their eyes locked. "Those bastards who took you made you sick. The others are getting sick, too." He managed a breath and gasped a little when he felt the knife go a hair deeper into his skin. A trickle of blood rolled down the side of his neck. He blinked and continued. "This isn't what you want to do. You don't want to kill me, Claire, or you'd have done it. You know this isn't right."

She was shaking visibly now, her entire body quivering like a high tension wire. "Why?" she begged again. Then, throwing her head back, she yelled at the sky, "WHY!"

The rest of the camp was stirring now, waking up. He heard Sayid bark something from across the cave, heard rushing feet. "No!" he yelled, and sucked in a breath when the knife sank deeper with the volume. Twitching up a hand he halted the approaching rescue team. "No…"

Claire was staring at him, tears poised on her lashes. "Why?" she pleaded with him.

"Because this isn't you, Claire," he murmured. "They're making you do something you don't want to do. Fight it. Fight them!"

"Why?"

"Because you're better than this. You're stronger than this."

"Why?"

"Because you've already survived so much. You can BEAT this. I _need_ you to beat this."

When she tilted her head her tears jogged loose, and they fell on his face like twin drops of rain. " _Why?_ " she whispered.

Charlie swallowed. "Don't you know?" he murmured, feeling tears burning behind his eyes.

Her free hand touched his lips and coasted over his eyelashes. "Why…"

Truth time. He was aware of the eyes of the rest of the camp staring at them and their sickly two-person tableau. Tears slipped over his temples as he swallowed down the burning lump in his throat. "Because I love you," he whispered. "That's why."

Claire stared at him. Then she smiled, sunlight on the snow in winter, and Charlie felt warmth rush through him like a wave. "Me too," she murmured.

Charlie felt a grin spread over his face. A rush of air that could have been a laugh puffed past his lips, and Claire's smile grew. She took the knife from his throat and he sat up, twining his arms around her and cradling her close. "I'm so proud of you," he whispered fervently by her ear, squeezing her matchstick body with all the power he dared. "I love you so much…!"

Claire huddled in his arms, her head pillowed on his shoulder, and Charlie had forgotten how good it felt to have her acknowledge his presence. "I'm sorry, Charlie," she whispered, her voice raspy with lack of use.

"Don't be sorry. You fought and you won. You don't have to be sorry."

"No, Charlie. I'm sorry."

There was something final about her tone. Charlie's smile faded, and he tilted his head to look into her eyes. They were blue again, as they hadn't been in a month, but they were full to the brim with a kind of hopeless regret. "Sorry for what, luv?" he breathed, stroking her hair back from her temple.

She raised a hand to cup his cheek. Her fingers were warm and sticky and left warm trails beneath his eye. He pulled back and grabbed her hand, staring in horror at the blood that coated it. "No…," he breathed. Flicking his eyes downward, he saw the hilt of the knife jutting out of her abdomen. Blood was soaking her thin shirt in an ever-spreading stain. His own t-shirt was plastered to his body like a scarlet skin. "NO!" he bellowed, raising his frantic eyes to Claire's face. "Claire, no!" He dropped her hand and cradled her head which was lolling weakly on her frail neck. Tears streamed down his face and he ignored them. "Why?" he begged brokenly. "Why?"

"They keep talking, Charlie," she whispered. "They tell me to kill you… They won't stop…"

"Who, Claire? Who's talking to you?"

"The voices… They whisper…"

Charlie bit his lip. Raising his eyes he scanned the crowd. "Where the hell is Jack! JACK! Somebody, please!"

No one moved.

"God damn you!" he roared. "Damn you to hell, all of you!" Turning his streaming eyes back to the woman in his arms, he pressed a hand to her belly, fingers slipping in the blood. "Claire… Please, you can't go like this. Please? Luv, please…"

She smiled for him, pale lips forming a dreamy crescent. "Don't cry, my Charlie," she murmured, trailing her bloody hand up his chest to rest on his neck. "I didn't kill you tonight… but what about tomorrow?" She shook her head faintly. "They've been…telling me for a month… saying I should kill you…" Her eyes drifted away to stare at the ceiling. "I ask them…I ask them why… they never tell me… they only say you're old…"

"Luv…" Charlie pressed his face into her throat, feeling her weakening pulse flutter against his lips as he sobbed .

"Shhh…" He felt her hand rest against the back of his head, and it struck him how unfair the position was, that she should have to comfort him. "They lost. They lost… They didn't get me, Charlie… Not really… they didn't get you…" Her throat worked as she swallowed, struggling for breath now. "Now they won't…"

He had to kiss her. The urge came over him like a lightning strike; he had to kiss her before it was all over and she couldn't feel it anymore. Before HE couldn't feel it. "Claire…!" He raised his head, staring down into her face with desolate, streaming eyes. Her gaze was placid, vaguely aware. "Claire…"

He kissed her. Claire's lips were cool against his but still soft, and they worked gently against his mouth as he poured everything into her: lust, pain, anger, betrayal, hope, love, joy, frustration, agony, fear, hatred, faith… He gave her everything he could muster, every emotion he'd been bottling since they'd crashed on this island, and for years before that. Maybe, just maybe, if he could fill her full of himself, she wouldn't wilt in his arms like a flower in a vase. Maybe just maybe he could bring her back to life.

When they finally separated, Charlie was gasping for breath and Claire was barely breathing. He found her eyes by sheer instinct, praying to see a flicker of life there. It was faint, but active. She managed a smile.

"Love you, Charlie," she mumbled sleepily.

"Love you, too," he choked, barely loud enough to be audible.

She closed her eyes. "Pray…" she breathed, and as though the word had sucked the last of the air from her lungs, her body went limp in his arms and her head turned to lead on his shoulder.

A moan crawled up his throat and forced its way past his lips. Pulling her close to him, Charlie buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed. The air was burning in his lungs as his chest heaved, fighting for relief. He relished the pain. Somehow he knew that after tonight, he would never really feel anything again.

"The Lord is my shepherd," he gasped as he rocked her body. "I shall not want. He… he maketh me to lie down in green… pastures…" He shuddered as he managed to suck in a deep breath. "Oh God… Claire, I don't… I can't…"

"He leadeth me beside the still waters," a soft voice said at his shoulder as a hand came to rest on his back. It was Kate, though he didn't look to see her. "He restoreth my soul…"

"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake," Locke's strong voice took over from somewhere in the crowd, and Charlie was reminded of a Sunday morning preacher speaking from the pulpit in an echoing cathedral. "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me…"

The words of the psalm poured through his veins and he tried to draw comfort from their familiar rhythm. But there was no comfort to be found in words. All the comfort he'd had in this place had been tied up in Claire. Even his guitar had failed him; the moisture had gotten to it and warped the body and the G-string had snapped. There was nothing for him now, without the woman who was dead in his arms.

Oh, Christ. She was dead.

A howl of agony tore from his throat and he clutched Claire even tighter, feeling the hilt of the knife still embedded in her belly press into his abdomen.

"Thou anointest my head with oil," Locke continued. "My cup runneth over-"

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…!" Charlie gasped, his fingers turning to talons as they clawed at Claire's back. "And I … I will dwell in the house of the Lord forev-ever…!" He raised his head and pressed his lips to Claire's forehead, still warm, even in death.

"Amen…," he whispered.

How long he sat there he couldn't say. Claire's body went from warm to cool to cold in his arms. The blood on his shirt dried stiff and shiny. He was aware of sounds from the rest of the camp -- raised voices, stomping feet, activity. But he didn't bother to see what it was all about. Nothing really mattered now. Everything outside of him was a dream.

When the sun rose, he watched it wash over Claire's blue face and knew he had to burn her.

His knees creaked as he stood, cradling her rigid body in his arms. Ignoring the others in the camp he carried Claire quietly into the woods. After they'd gone a fair distance from camp, he laid her down at the base of a spreading tree and proceeded to build her a pyre.

It took the better part of the day for him to collect enough wood, but by the time the sun was well overhead he'd built it up to a suitable height. Turning back to Claire, he brushed away the flies that had begun to settle on her skin and lifted her gently, placing her reverently on the platform of sticks. The only decent thing he'd learned on this island besides pain was how to build a fire without matches, and methodically he began moving around the base of the pyre, striking his piece of flint against his piece of scavenged steel. By the time he'd made the full circuit, the far side of the pyre had begun to crackle and smoke with promise.

Charlie sighed, tucking the firestarters into his pocket and leaning close to the flames. They hadn't begun to lick all the way up the wood yet, but they would soon. Reaching out a hand, he stroked his fingers through Claire's hair. "Sweet dreams, luv," he whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

Standing straight again, he watched her for a second before reaching down and calmly pulling the knife from her abdomen. It resisted, mired in flesh and dried blood; but eventually it came free. He stared at it, marking how the blood around the hilt was brown and flaky, while the blood on the blade was still bright. Bending down, he wiped the blade clean on the grass, then straightened up and leaned across the growing flames. Taking a lock of Claire's hair between his fingers, he used the knife to cut it free. It came away easily, and he stood back as the flames finally overtook the rest of the pyre and began to flicker around Claire's recumbent body.

The voices had told her to kill him, he mused, but she'd resisted and killed herself instead. _They didn't get you,_ she'd murmured. _Now they won't._

"No, luv, they won't," he whispered, watching as her shirt began to blacken and burn. "I promise they won't." His fingers tightened around the hilt of the knife.

Craning his head, he stared over his shoulder, back through the jungle in the direction of the camp. Vague murmurings from the night before were finally sinking into his exhausted brain. He'd heard snatches of hurried conversation from the rest of the camp as he held Claire's body. Something about Jack.

_He's dead, Sayid, oh my God, he's DEAD!_

_How? How did this happen?_

_I… I don't know… I think someone strangled him!_

_With what? A vine?_

_Something thinner. Oh God…! Jack!_

_Kate, you must calm down. Please? We have to find out what killed him, so we can figure out who else is infected!_

_Jaaaaack!_

Charlie smiled as he remembered the conversation. That was why Jack hadn't come when he called for him. Of course. Being woken so hurriedly must have muddled his brain.

Everyone had forgotten about his guitar.

"I promise they won't get me, Claire," he whispered, still staring over his shoulder as the flames crackled on. "Not if I get them first."

He tilted his head to listen for the Whispers. He needed to know who was next.

 

 

**THE END**

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from a gorgeous poem by Walter de la Mare, entitled "The Listeners."


End file.
